


Royalties

by SrebrnaFH



Series: Srebrna's Sherlock Oneshots [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: First Kiss, Leather gloves, M/M, Post-Reichenbach, a bit of leather kink I suppose, leather coat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-28
Updated: 2018-08-28
Packaged: 2019-07-03 22:23:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,159
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15828120
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SrebrnaFH/pseuds/SrebrnaFH
Summary: John gets finally paid for his hard work and goes shopping.





	Royalties

John turned the printout a few times in his hands.

He had already seen the sum in his online banking system, but somehow making a hardcopy of the wire transfer made it more real. More solid.

Numbers on the screen were that, just numbers. Paper, black letters, blue lines. This was real, this was actual money. The final amount. Full sum.

He swallowed, hard.

Writing of the book was cathartic. Cleansing. Rejuvenating. He didn’t feel twenty, nothing silly like that. He still had the scar on his shoulder - and an even bigger one on his heart. He still was almost-forty, too short, too stocky and not handsome enough for anyone to look twice. But apparently, despite all the criticism he had endured, he could write.

Quietly, just to himself, he admitted that it was possible his writing had improved due to all that criticism (and grammar picking, and vocabulary suggestions) and that sometimes when he reviewed his work, he could hear, just at the very edge of his hearing range, a rumbling voice correcting and commenting.

It paid, apparently. In honest British pounds, extravagant sum of.

He had been living reasonably. Having left 221B when the ghosts of the place become too much for him, he rented a nice but bland place on the other side of the city. It had roof access and a symbolic balcony, both of which he used to start a tiny urban garden (furnished with a small bee shelter). It had a large window, under which he had carefully put his writing desk, in a position ensuring minimum sun glare off his screen. He bought himself a birthday present - an ergonomic keyboard, to let his wrists rest and a touch-typing course. Both felt alien for a while, but slowly, step by step, he adjusted.

The book contract came to him through a friend of a friend of someone who knew Greg and knew Greg knew Sherlock. And John. It wasn’t going to be a story to buy back public’s hearts - or at least it wasn’t going to be marketed as Sherlock Holmes’ Proof Of Truth. No, they were going to just introduce it as John Watson’s memories of his time with Sherlock Holmes. However public chose to see it… well, it was out of their hands (wink, wink, hint, smile). If fans chose to storm the newspapers publishing houses demanding Sherlock’s name to be cleared, well, that would be an astonishing effect nobody had expected, right? Right.

The side effect of that work was that John suddenly found himself in money. Much more than he had ever seen in his account before. It was nice. It was secure. It was a bloody satisfying feeling, actually. Good pay for a well-done work. For all his digging in his papers, trawling through notes and putting together good, consistent and well-rounded stories. For all the nights he had spent looking at the window with empty eyes, watching scenes from his memory play themselves out on the backdrop of darkness.

He fingered the credit card now in his pocket and chewed on his lip for a moment. He wanted to commemorate that day somehow. He needed… He needed something appropriate. Extravagant, but useful. Flashy, yet still fitting his image. Something…

…just like the long, black leather coat in the shop window across the street.

In seconds he was at the door which opened with an understated “plom” of a wooden bell.

The man behind the counter looked up and smiled perfunctorily. He had that kind of “how-can-I-help-you-without-telling-you-you-are-too-poor-to-be-here” smile that various shop assistants assumed on seeing John (barring electronics and nerd-oriented shops where he could fit perfectly).

John stood stiffly and straightened.

“I’m looking for something appropriate from your offer” he said, exuding as much confidence as he could (his middle class anxieties regarding invisible price tags were still as strong as ever). “Preferably with a hint of military look, if you possibly could.”

The man snapped up as if stung by a bee.

“Of course we can! Come on in, sir, let me take your measurements… Would you prefer a slim fit, or something more accommodating?”

“Oh, slim” John hid his smile. “And with a wide collar, if possible.”

Bare half hour later he was leaving the tiny shop in a knee-length black coat with slight military-style decorations. His old jacket thrown over his forearm, a booklet on leather conservation stuck in his pocket, he looked up the street, checking the position of the sun.

Something black moved just around the corner in a move betraying a desperate need to hide.

 _Pickpockets_  he thought. Of course they would be lying in wait around luxury shops, on lookout for patrons whose relaxed attention would be more on their new purchases than on wallets and purses.

He walked faster, breaking into a run when he reached the corner, ready to pounce on whoever had been lurking there.

His stride was thrown off balance, when instead of him pouncing upon someone he found himself being pounced upon. The pouncee? And yet the hands that held him were gentle, covered in gloves of the softest, buttery leather. Thin leather, through which he could feel every move of the other’s hands against his. All he could  _see_  was black, though. Black, or more specifically, black wool. And there was someone pinning him to the wall, and yet again, their hold on him was gentle, caressing almost. He tried to focus. He needed to calm down.

One large inhale had calmed his hastily beating heart.

It had also the effect of bringing him suddenly, painfully into the land of memories.

The gloved hand now cupped his face, but all he could see was a sliver of dark navy blue shirt peeking out from among the black wool.

“I thought I would have been able to stay away” he heard, and his heart constricted sweetly. “I watched you… just today, mind you. I was curious what you would do on such a fine day. Didn’t predict an attempt to kill me by the simple expedient of having all my blood transferred much lower than useful.”

He breathed shallowly and raised his head finally, just as Sherlock’s thumb caressed his lower lip.

“Sherlock” he said softly. “What the hell are you doing here?”

The taller man smiled and shook his head.

“Later. I promise. Now, however…” he dipped his head a bit, taking a long sniff at John’s coat. “Ah. New leather… John” he crowded the soldier closer to the wall and pulled his face up, slanting his lips over John’s in a fluid, perfect move.

John’s brain fizzled and shut down.

Yes, he would definitely hit the wanker later on. He would demand explanation. He would rave and rage. Just not now. Not right now, because he stood there, all in leather and wool, pressed into the wall by his best friend who was snogging the living daylights out of him.

Good thing, book royalties.

**Author's Note:**

> I wanted John to buy himself a Matrix-style coat, but it's not an exactly appropriate thing for someone of his height.


End file.
